


Prairie Fire

by ponderinfrustration



Series: Buckaroo Fringe [5]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Western, Arizona - Freeform, Drugs, Gen, Medicine, Opioids, Range War, Sherlock is haunted by the ghosts of his past, Shooting, animal slaughter mentioned, drug, foot and mouth disease, injuries, writing as therapy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-23
Updated: 2015-02-23
Packaged: 2018-01-21 14:05:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 13
Words: 21,344
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1553072
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ponderinfrustration/pseuds/ponderinfrustration
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>(Formerly 'Aftosa') </p><p>Arizona, 1886.</p><p>"Blood stained hands. Crackling flames stretching towards the sky. Acrid smell of hide and hair as the flames eat their way through carcasses piled high."</p><p>An outbreak of foot and mouth disease. A gunman in the night. And far too many memories best left forgotten. Sherlock Holmes regrets ever wishing for something more exciting than cattle rustlers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Just A Normal Day

"Come upstairs." Irene's voice is low and sultry in his ear, the invitation as expected as it is unwanted, breath warm as it traces the shell of his ear.

Sherlock sighs and pretends to take a sip of his whiskey. "I'm working," he says softly, out of the corner of his mouth, eyes trained on the supposed dentist dealing cards at the faro table.

“So am I. So let’s work together.” She follows his line of sight, her hair just brushing his cheek, enough to make him smirk. "Which one?"

""Doctor" McQuaid. Dentist idea came from Holliday, but his fingers aren't callused, which they should be because he claims to be practicing. Plus, what dentist would not repair his own chipped incisor? Conclusion, he's a fraud."

"What does he want then?" She slides onto Sherlock's lap, arms around his neck, making herself comfortable. He presses a kiss to her forehead, lips trailing down to rest beside her ear.

"Contract killer. He was playing poker with John Masters not long before he died. Based on what Stamford found when she performed the autopsy, there were some commonalities with arsenic poisoning, but it all happened far too fast, plus it would have required a larger dose of arsenic than what could routinely be administered during the course of a faro game. Combined with the chemical stains on McQuaid’s fingers, he has some knowledge of mixing compounds. Hence, he’s the murderer and the only reason he’s still in town is to avoid being implicated in the affair. If he’d run, it would be far too obvious.”

Irene turns her head, nipping Sherlock’s neck gently, teeth grazing the skin just so. “What do you want me to do?” Her breath ghosts over his pulse point, making his hair stand just slightly on end.

“Distract him. An hour at least. I need to search his room at the hotel.”

“You’d better come upstairs later.”

He grins deviously at her, eyes crinkling at the corners and she feels her own lips twitch in response. “I’ll see what I can do,” he murmurs, pressing his lips to hers for the benefit of surreptitious bystanders.

She kisses him back briefly before standing up, smoothing down the fresh creases in her dress, and sauntering over to the faro table, her dark hair flowing onto the red fabric creating the illusion of attractive danger. Instead of waiting to watch her turn on the charm, Sherlock knocks back his whisky, runs his fingers through his curls and puts on his hat. Nodding to Joe behind the bar on the way, he passes through the swinging doors as Irene gets to work on the “dentist.”

The town is quiet, midday heat having driven most people indoors as it so often does. Sherlock flips his collar to shield his neck from the glaring sun, and hooks his thumbs into his belt loops, eyes on the ground so as to be less conspicuous. Wandering down a side street, he slips around the back of the hotel and in through the other door.

At this time of day, the majority of ladies are congregated in the lounge with their elegant and occasionally sneering conversation, while their men are in the bar or playing billiards or conducting whatever business has brought them to San Pedro as opposed to Tucson or even Tombstone. This leaves it clear for Sherlock to quietly go up the back stairs, find the right room and pick the lock, all in the space of three minutes.

The room itself is dark, curtains pulled shut even in the middle of the day. Though he isn’t fully certain of what he is looking for, the dentist’s bag seems a good place to begin. A search shows up nothing of interest except for a bottle of laudanum. Cursing softly to himself, Sherlock moves onto the chest of drawers which present only clothes and chemistry books with a couple of glass flasks. No sign of arsenic or cyanide or anything remotely toxic.

A glance at his watch shows that time is getting short, ticking down quickly and he needs to find _something_. McQuaid is clearly the murderer, so where are his poisons?

Unless he has them on him. Always a possibility. And why didn’t it occur to him sooner?

His coat swirls as he turns towards the door, but McQuaid’s trunk catches his eye again, specifically the bottom. The trunk was empty when he checked it, but something like that is always worth a second look.

The door loses its appeal, Sherlock instead throwing open the trunk lid. Empty, of course, as it had been before, but appearing five inches deeper on the outside than the inside.

False bottom.

Taking the small lever from his tool kit, he carefully prises open the decoy trunk floor, every moment aware of how little time is left. The bottom comes up easily, revealing its secret of a water canteen, mortar and pestle, and small, locked box. Fiddling with his lock pick, the box lid springs open. And there, nestled gently inside, is Sherlock’s quarry. Clearly identifiable arsenic and hemlock, and what could very possibly be lead.

The grin that breaks across his face here in this dark room is a special, secret one reserved for these moments of breakthrough, for the rush of sweet satisfaction through his veins when the knowledge is his and his alone, before Lestrade and John get to hear his deductions. For a moment, he allows himself to savour this feeling of being right. Then the ticking clock comes back to him, so he carefully arranges the trunk as he found it and slips back out the way he came.

* * *

 

US Marshal Greg Lestrade is pleased to say the least when Sherlock swirls into his office all cheekbones and dramatic coat. The self-satisfied glint in his eye prompts Greg to stand up and put on his hat before even asking what breakthrough the detective has reached.

“Who am I arresting?” he simply asks, buckling his gunbelt and ensuring the pistol is loaded in case of trouble.

“The supposed dentist, Kenny McQuaid,” Sherlock replies, sitting back on Greg’s desk and taking off his broad-brimmed hat. The curls tumble free, unruly as ever. “He murdered John Masters with a poison comprised of arsenic, hemlock and what I suspect is lead. All of the evidence you need is under the false bottom in his trunk, and he is currently playing faro in the Comique.”

Greg sighs, raising an eyebrow at Sherlock but deigning not to comment on the extent of his knowledge. Experience has taught him that when Sherlock Holmes makes a pronouncement on the location of crucial evidence, it’s best not to know how he came to possess such knowledge. His lock-picking skills are proof enough. “Are you joining me then for the arrest?”

Sherlock smirks, but shakes his head. “No, but I’ll wander over with you in that direction. Miss Adler demands my company.”


	2. Aphthous Possibilities

"You really need to sleep more," Irene berates him, digging her fingers into his shoulders in an attempt to massage out the tension.

"You mean sleeping here, of course. In your bed instead of in the lodgings which I pay for." Sherlock's voice sounds bored, but Irene has known him long enough to hear the thread of amusement lingering beneath the surface. It’s an old argument between the two of them, her berating him for not taking care of himself, him trying to fob her off.

"Sleeping at all would help you, no matter what you say about it slowing you down. That's why you're so tense now."

"I'm not tense."

"Yes you are." She kneads his muscles firmer as if to emphasis the point. “I suppose Lestrade has arrested the dentist.”

“Yep. All neatly wrapped up with a bow. Ridiculously simple once I’d handed him the evidence.”

“Does that mean you’ve eaten today?”

He grunts noncommittally, and really that is more than enough of an answer. Irene simply purses her lips and continues with the massage, deciding for now that it’s better just to say nothing.

“Irene.”

“Mhmm?”

“Thank you.”

She smiles in spite of herself. “I know you’re manipulating me, Mister Holmes, but it is nice to hear the words. John must be so pleased to see how your manners have improved.”

“Now that you mention it, he has remarked on it. Though that was more to the effect that the world must be ending, truth be told. I meant to forget that.” And for the life of him now, he can’t remember why he chose to retain it. Perhaps just because it was John who came out with something so ridiculous and inane.

“And yet, you just couldn’t bring yourself to. You’re a closet sentimentalist, Sherlock. No point in denying it. The difficult façade can’t fool everyone, you know.”

* * *

 

When Sherlock eventually leaves Irene for the evening and goes back downstairs, he finds John waiting for him at the bar, nursing a glass of whisky. The scene is so unusual – John tends to favour beer, after all – that Sherlock takes a moment to deduce what has happened. But all that he can figure out is that it must be something to do with having been called out to the Marion Ranch in the morning.

John’s hat is beside him on the bar, hair tangled from repeatedly running his fingers through it, an unusual nervous tic of his which rarely sees daylight and certainly not in public. His moustache seems to droop more than normal at the ends, and his boots are scuffed with dust, as is the bottom of his coat hanging on his chair. Clearly he’s come straight from the ranch without going back to the house to clean up a bit. The knowledge of that is more than enough to set Sherlock on edge, though he refuses to show it. Enough that Irene is picking up on his sentiment.

“Lestrade said I’d find you here,” John says by way of an opening when Sherlock pulls up a chair beside him. “He also said to tell you that McQuaid confessed to Masters’ murder.”

“And why aren’t you polluting yourself with that ridiculous rubbish that you consider alcohol?” Sherlock asks by way of an answer, because of course McQuaid confessed after being arrested with such compelling evidence.

“I’d dare you to tell me that, but I know you won’t be able to.”

Sherlock looks at him as if disgusted, though secretly pleased at the challenge. “Marion’s steer was more complicated than you’d thought, which is why you were held up out there all day and also why you came straight here. However, the whisky drinking is anomalous because normally after a long day you especially favour beer. So I suspect that it wasn’t just an ill steer that got you hauled out there.”

John watches to see that Joe is busy attending to someone else, and to ensure that there are no eavesdroppers, then leans in to whisper in Sherlock’s ear. “I suspect it might be aphthous fever, but I need you to confirm it.”

For once in his life, Sherlock is struck dumb, his Eastern education failing him, though of course he understands what his best friend has told him. The words to reply, however, simply refuse to come, milling instead in a confusing mess in his mind, half-forming questions before disappearing into the soup of thought again. John would be amused if the situation wasn’t so serious.

“Aph . . . you mean to say that there’s . . . are you sure?” In spite of his disbelief, he’s disgusted at himself for stumbling over the familiar syllables.

John shakes his head. “Not quite. Unlike you I’ve never seen it before so I could be confusing the vesicles with a multitude of other things, but I’m almost positive that that’s it. The fever, the lethargy, the blisters. They all fit, and his Mexican vaqueros have picked up on it too. Will you . . . will you go out there in the morning?”

The small seed of doubt isn’t as comforting as it should be, but it’s enough that he’s able to feign only mild concern. “Suppose I should, just to be absolutely certain and out of scientific curiosity. Maybe it’s something minor and boring.”

“I’ve never heard you wish for something boring before.”

Sherlock doesn’t reply, caught in the barrage of memories flooding back at the mere mention of aphthous fever. The two years that he spent away destroying criminal networks from the inside, the days spent lining up infected cattle to be shot when he worked as a stockman to gather information on a slave-trading enterprise, the dark alley in New York where he was left for dead. The killing and violence that characterised those two years is never far away, but the thought that that dread-disease which played such a small but essential part in it might be in the Arizona territory plunges him back to those long, painful nights of watching his back and digging out information, while haunted by blood running from pistol holes in bovine foreheads.

Irene’s right. He is tense, but not from the lack of sleep. And something tells him that he won’t be sleeping on this night either.

John’s hand on his arm jolts Sherlock back to the present, to the too-bright saloon and Irene leaning against the piano singing ‘Red River Valley’, all of the cowhands who don’t realise what could possibly be stalking the range. And Sherlock doesn’t want them to realise. For once, it would be delightful if everyone could remain in blissful ignorance.

“We’ll have to wire Mycroft.” John’s voice is still low, an undertone belying the full potential horror of the situation. And though Sherlock is loath to admit it even now, Mycroft will have to know. Will have to make certain arrangements, though hopefully it won’t get as far as it could. (And though he’s never put much store by hope and faith, Sherlock almost wishes that there was logic behind such ideas. Logic he can work with.)

“Leave it until we know for sure. He’ll have our hides if it’s only some minor infection though I’ll admit that that possibility is remarkably unlikely. They found it in Galveston only last week after all.” Sherlock sighs and taps the bar to attract Joe’s attention. “Cigar please, Joe. Think I might need one.”

Joe glances toward Irene at the piano out of the side of his eye, but Sherlock notices it anyway and with all of the other thoughts swirling in his head, is unable to bring himself to smirk. “Miss Adler says you can have as many as you want.”

“My compliments to Miss Adler.”

Joe wanders off to deal with a cowhand after leaning against the bar, and Sherlock lights up the cigar, revelling in the calming influence of the smoke. John refuses to comment, instead re-filling his glass, both of them finding relief from the newfound worry in their chosen pursuits, however long that relief may last.


	3. Blisters and Gunshots

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Not fully happy with this chapter if I'm honest, but it's not the worst either and perhaps it just needs me to step back and gain some perspective before it give it another edit. As it is it's fit for purpose.
> 
> Also, a warning that there are things referred to in this chapter which may be squicky to some (namely the slaughter of infected cattle), but I tried to keep as much as that out of it as possible. In fact, on that front I think I did well but forewarned is forearmed and I recommend you be on your guard because it is suggested.

John knows that Sherlock did things which he wasn't proud of while he was away, knows he's haunted still by the memories of his actions and the actions of others. Knows that he’s subtly different since he came back, calmer in some ways, better able to deal with people having worked so hard to blend into the background for so long, to escape the notice of those he was working to destroy. (And John’s forgiven him for disappearing too, because how could he not?)

John also knows that there isn't any point in pressing Sherlock for information. He'll find out what he'll find out and it's better that way, because otherwise Sherlock will simply close up and hide his feelings even deeper than where they're at, leaving them to gnaw at him and plague his mind late at night without a case. That haunted look comes into his eyes far too often as it is.

So on this night of all nights when Sherlock reaches for the laudanum bottle, John doesn't berate him, simply nods and decides to check on him to be sure he hasn't taken too much again, ensure that it’s just sleep and not unconsciousness. (Once was quite frankly enough to go through that worry.)

For his own part, John knows sleep won't be too easy tonight for him either. Every time he closes his eyes, he sees the blisters anew, the quiet acceptance on the faces of the vaqueros. Aphthous fever. Aftosa. Foot and mouth disease. All the one, just different names from different places, capturing one sinister meaning. John knows what happened back east too, in '80 and '84. Knows about the mass slaughter and destruction, the pits and cremations. Knows Sherlock and Irene played some part in the affair while on the run together. And knows, too, that though they were only cattle the killing touched something buried deep in Sherlock, something nobody could have known was there. So though John knows that the vesicles he's seen today can mean only one thing, he finds himself praying to a god he's not even sure he believes in that Sherlock says otherwise in the morning.

There's been enough shooting in their lives without adding more to it.

* * *

 

The morning is bright, blue sky bearing down on a dusty land with scarce water that yet manages to support a couple thousand cattle scattered across a vast range. A range where something simple has been preserved for years, horses and cattle and the men who work them from sun-up to sun-down and all through the night, guarding and watching, protecting against disaster.

(This is one disaster they can’t protect against, no matter how many bullets in their guns or how much barbed wire they string.)

The thoughts of the insidious darkness lurking out there coupled with the lingering nausea from the laudanum destroy any appetite Sherlock may have had. The couple of mouthfuls of breakfast he swallows are more to keep Mrs Hudson from fussing over him than anything else. He and John leave before the sun is fully up, loaded with guns and ammunition, a prepared solution of carbolic acid, and the knowledge of what they will surely find.

The very land seems to know the death sentence hanging over it, seeming ghostly in the lightening day. There’s not so much as a breath of wind through the dry prairie grass, no birds or jackrabbits or anybody else along the dusty road. Even the steers are further in-land, closer to the canyons and the shade, whatever scrub they can find though it’s greener here than in other parts of the state. Everything is shrouded in a quiet hush as if waiting with bated breath for the world to wake up. (For gunfire and flying lead, perhaps.) Silent except for the horses' hooves on the gravelly dirt.

Both men are lost in their own thoughts and calculations, one locking away his emotions in a remote part of his mind, the other still praying to be wrong, both planning what will need to be done, already thinking ahead to the next phase of the operation. They’re not veterinarians, not in the usual sense of the world. Those are few and far between in a land where a sick animal needs to be roped and tied before examination, where it could take several days to ride from one case to another. But as practical men of science, Sherlock and John have devoted some time to the study of such things and so they know that if it’s true then there’s a lot of work to be done.

Al Marion himself, wiry thin and pale beneath his tan, is waiting for them when they reach the yard. An exchange of nods in the place of words, before pointing their horses north, three riding abreast to where the herd has spent the night, kept close and together by a hastily-strung barbed wire fence. One steer is loose from the others, lying under the shade of a cottonwood tree, head in the dust, horns themselves seeming to droop. There is no need to question why, only one logical explanation.

Sherlock dismounts, pulling off his gloves and draping his jacket across his saddle, horse waiting without question at the reins on the ground in front of his feet. Positioning his hat to block the strengthening glare of the sun, he walks over to the steer whom fever and pain has lain so low that he doesn't get up. Marion and John join him after only a moment, with the rancher roping the steer around the horns, pulling his head back. That provokes the animal to fighting, but he's that weakened that it's largely ineffective, especially when John pulls on the rope too, stretching it taut.

First, Sherlock examines the hooves, notes the red rawness of the burst blisters behind and between the digits. The sight of them on all four feet, and the swollen coronets, causes his heart to sink in spite of his best attempts at numbness. Then he turns to the mouth with its semi-viscous ropy drool. That's enough in and of itself, and if this were a case for Lestrade he'd call it without going any further, taking into account the staring coat, visible ribs and sunken eyes. But it's not for Lestrade, and it brings back so many memories of Maine that he grabs the steer by the jaw and wrestles his mouth open, eyes falling immediately to the peeling tongue before passing to the ulcerated gums.

At the nausea rising in his stomach and the ringing in his ears, Sherlock lets his hands fall away. He closes his eyes for a moment, fighting to calm himself before reminding himself that this is Arizona and he's not destroying Moriarty's network anymore. It's a case. Just a case.

"What is it, Mister Holmes?" Marion's voice betrays nothing of the worry he surely feels and it is enough to pull Sherlock back to the present.

"Foot and mouth, Mister Marion. Also known as aftosa or aphthous fever." He surprises himself at how unconcerned he manages to sound, as if there isn't a tumult of memories waiting to come to the fore again. "We'll have to shoot him and burn the carcass. I'll wire Prescott when I get back to town and it's likely that the DA will want to destroy all livestock who've been in contact with him regardless of whether they show signs of infection or not."

"What'll we do until you get an answer from Prescott?" Marion loosens the rope from the steer’s horns and lifts it away, drawing his pistol.

"Shoot anything showing signs of infection and observe the others.  Do you have any cattle that haven’t been in contact with these?"

"About a hundred head to the north and two hundred to the east."

Sherlock nods, washing his hands in the disinfectant solution and pulling his gloves back on, eyes averted as the pistol shot rings across the land. (No point in adding too many new memories to the old ones.) "I'll check them for signs now. Might be a chance that they're in the clear and maybe you'll be able to hold them."

* * *

The evening is closing in when Sherlock and John get back to town, sun sinking towards the horizon, bathing the land in a gold that brings out the dryness of the plains, Redbeard’s deep red coat glowing like fire beneath the saddle. Lead, buckshot, gunfire fill Sherlock’s mind though he tries to fight them back, tries to tune them out and absorb himself in something as mundane as the landscape, the lengthening shadows and night birds appearing, the mysteries that lurk in such a harsh, beautiful place. (And beauty is a social construct, but it’s a distraction, something fresh to ponder on and tease out, instead of blood streaking over a white face from a neat hole between hollow, empty eyes.) It’s almost possible to believe that there isn’t a cloud of thick smoke hanging over the range behind them, from one fire burning the carcasses of fifty. (He’s never been a praying man – it goes against his scientific nature – but he thanks God anyway that the herds to the north and east are clear.)

The town when they return is loud, raucous. Saloons overflowing with the miners having come in, music thrumming out of the dance halls. It’s the picture of debauchery and sin, but oddly comforting in its normality, untouched by the nightmare of blisters and gunshots. John takes the horses back to the livery, leaving Sherlock free to go to the post office.

It takes him a minute longer than it should to dictate the telegram, phrasing it in such a way that Mycroft won’t think he’s worried, merely doing his duty of reporting what needs to be reported. (Mycroft will know anyway, because Mycroft always knows. No use in giving him extra fodder.)

The message sent, Sherlock reaches into his pocket and pulls out the twenty cents for the telegram. “Two dollars,” he says, “if you’ll wait here until a reply comes through. It might take a while.”

The telegraphist grins. “No problem, Mister Holmes.”

“I’ll be in the Comique all night.” With that, Sherlock turns on his heel and leaves, spurs rattling on the hardwood floor.

The Comique is louder than any of the other saloons likely are, the young women in Irene’s employ prancing around, plying their trade with the gamblers and miners and louts in for the night. The piano music is lively, air laden with cigar smoke, whisky and sweat. Just a normal night in a normal saloon.

Pushing his way into the bar, Sherlock signals Joe for a bottle and a cigar.

“Bad day, huh?” Irene is beside him in a moment, arm sliding around his waist while she strikes the match and lights his cigar.

“Remember Maine in ’84?” His words are soft, spoken as a whisper into her ear, but they have the desired effect. She pales and pulls back, looking at him with eyes wide and concerned, dropping her whore persona that’s become like a second skin in an instant.

“Undercover unravelling the slave-trading enterprise? Somehow I don’t think you’re referring to that particular part of the affair.”

“Excellent deduction.” He knocks back a shot of whisky, feeling it bite his throat on the way down before filling another glass. “Fifty head gone up in smoke at the Marion ranch today.”

“You don’t mean –“

“I do.”

She takes the glass off him, drinking it down in one mouthful. “Never thought we’d see it out here.”

“Never thought we’d see it again, if I’m honest. I’ve wired Mycroft.”

“Do you think he’ll come down?”

Sherlock shrugs, knocking back another glass. “Who knows? You should probably be careful though.”

“I’m always careful, Sherlock.”

He chuckles in spite of himself and she smiles, but they’re interrupted by the telegraphist running in and passing over Mycroft’s reply. Sherlock reads through, eyes scanning the broken sentences that come with telegraphy and pulling forth precisely what his brother means, before turning it over, writing a reply and handing it back to the young man.

“Another dollar for the reply to that one,” he says over the noise of the crowd. The temptation to turn over the information in his mind is there, to break it into different parts, separate it out like a chemical solution before putting it back together. But now is not the time for that. He needs to separate himself from the facts, to gain a different perspective first. As it is he’s far too close to the outbreak (because it’s not a case, not really, no matter the language used by Mycroft to convince him of that. It’s an outbreak, possibly an epidemic, so everything needs to percolate differently, needs a different filter. And here, in this saloon, he has that different filter.

Just unfortunate that it’s a whisky bottle.)


	4. Almost Epidemic

It possesses his mind, all that he can think of in the early hours of the morning. It got to Portland on a ship from Liverpool, but how could it get to Arizona? No ports trading with the outside world, and if it had been brought in from Galveston then how come it hasn't shown up anywhere else along the way despite passing through cattle country? How could there be two isolated cases so far apart? Unless they weren't connected, which still leaves the question of how it got to Arizona.

Pity there's not enough light to investigate by, because there must be something out on the range to give him a clue.

The whisky has long-since left his system, and the room is filled with cigar smoke, floor littered with smoked butts. John has locked away any drugs that he has, and though he knows that he could find some if he looked hard enough, Sherlock can't seem to muster the energy to try. Not now. He's opened a new file in his mental cabinet, placed everything he knows about the case in its pages - the age of the blisters, how many were infected, where they'd been in the days before the blisters showed.

None of the pieces fit together. Oh, the basic facts follow each other as far as the course of the disease is concerned, but there's no logical explanation and that's what makes his head spin in circles. (Unless, it was spread intentionally. But why spread it intentionally, and how? What purpose would it serve?) Perhaps it's too soon to make conjectures about this just yet. It's a mistake to theorize without all of the relevant information, and he knows that but he just can't help it. (He's never known his self-control to be so shot. At least, not without the influence of something else. And never has a night felt so long before. Not even those nights on the run with Irene.)

* * *

By the time that midday rolls around, Sherlock is at the far end of the Double Diamond, a long, long way from the Marion Ranch. (Yet, in truth, there's little difference between the two. Both hot and dry and dusty and cattle marked by blisters.)

"What next?" the rancher, Robards, asks, voice hiding emotion at the sight of the bloody carcasses, only the already infected lying stiffening beneath the noontime sun, the rest still waiting, verdict unknown.

"There's a steam shovel coming from Prescott and a cavalry unit from the Fort to handle the clean-up," Sherlock says, voice emotionless but not cold, feelings under control. (For now, at least.) "If any more show up, they'll take the herd. That was the only compromise I could negotiate." Silence. No gathering buzzards just yet but it's only a matter of time. "Mister Robards, have any of your stock recently come from Galveston? Or could they have associated with Marion's cattle in the last three weeks?"

He knows the answer, can read it plain as day in the rancher before him, the concerned, confused creases around his eyes and the nervous way he fingers his gunbelt. The bitten lip and haggard face.

"No. The last cattle I bought came in on the train from Amarillo and that was two months ago."

"Then you have no idea how this disease can have jumped fifty miles? You have nothing that could be carrying it?"

Robards shakes his head, sunlight glinting off his greying beard. "No. Nothing."

* * *

Come evening, there's a third case though at least this one is in Marion's northern herd. Whether that's a blessing or a curse remains to be seen, after all, if it were going to show up anywhere it'd be there first. So it's not quite enough to declare an epidemic. (But all it would take is one more man's stock to go down just the same. One set of blisters in an uninfected herd, then let the guns rattle.)

It's almost nightfall when Sherlock gets into town and stables Redbeard. There’s no point in going to see Irene, or checking in with Lestrade, so he wires Mycroft with the latest situation and walks home through the dusty streets, hands buried in his pockets. For the first time in a long time, the itch burns deep in his chest to walk in the opposite direction and go to the opium den. To smoke until he forgets, until his mind is a blank, comforting canvas with none of this nonsense, no carmine and blisters infesting every thought, every memory.

How was he to have known, back in Maine, that it would haunt him like this? Breaking down Moriarty’s network was never meant to hurt so much. It was to be a long, fantastic puzzle with a multitude of pieces coalescing, and full of excitement. It wasn’t supposed to give him memories that stuck with him, with images of horrifying, bloody death. Who would have thought that he, Sherlock Holmes, of all people could be so affected by the slaughter of animals, ill though they may be? No murdered corpse ever left the profoundly wrong feeling that watching blood leak from between two trusting eyes did. Never caused the same feeling of dread at the sight of a blister, the apprehension at riding off with Redbeard in the morning, not knowing what he’d find, how many he’d watch being killed, crumpling to the ground, limbs twitching and kicking in a nervous response as life slipped away. They’re only animals. So why is the whole affair so sickening?

(It is not the disease which he fears, the disease is science, perfectly understandable with sufficient time and equipment. It is the cure which affects him like this. The cure that isn’t a cure.) 


	5. Percolating the Theory

The map takes up most of the study wall, pinned carefully to the softwood board so that it doesn’t crease. In crimson ink Sherlock has highlighted each of the infected premises, drawing around the ranch borders, totalling four places now. Within the red borders, he’s used green ink to mark off ranch sections so far free of the disease.

The picture is not an appealing one.

It’s been three whole days since the infection showed up on the Double Diamond, proving that it wasn’t simply confined to the Marion Ranch. In one day alone it showed in three sections of range – Marion’s third herd, the Bar Seventeen and the Tri-circle T. Sherlock tries not to think of the rapidity of the spread, the only logical explanation for which would be the movement of cattle. But he’s looked at the records, and no cattle movements have taken place recently enough for that to be a factor.

Two ranches in the area remain uninfected, and these are bordered by where the infection has already hit. True, Henry Way’s Box H is clear on one side, bordering a road in the next county and perhaps the stock are simply too far away from the Bar Seventeen. Yet Frank Canton’s Flying W, which is surrounded by the contagion, has also remained free of it. It just doesn’t add up.

Sherlock smokes another cigar – his third of the morning – as he pins a sheet of figures beside the map, then steps back to take in the scene again. Across the top of the wall he’s pinned a timeline, charting the spread over the handful of days that it’s known. Yesterday, the cavalry arrived and began mass slaughter on the affected ranches, no discrimination in whether individual animals have it or not. Wanton destruction of livestock, government sanctioned. A story repeated time and again, only this time far away from the coast.

If Sherlock lets his mind slip for a second, he can hear their guns and the rattle of the steam shovel Mycroft sent in. So he keeps his eyes fixed to the wall, to the map and the timeline and the figures, in the hope of finding a solution before there isn’t a steer left on the range.

(At the rate this is spreading, that’s going to be sooner rather than later. But at least the barbed wire fences have slowed it down a bit.)

The crook of his elbow itches, and he scratches it absentmindedly. In Maine he caved and bought a supply of morphine when the slaughter was through, to block the images from his mind. (The smell seemed to linger somehow, just the same. Blood and cattle hide and straw and water. Something indefinable, really, bringing it all back to him.) Now, his skin seems to beg for the same sort of relief, the slide of the hypodermic and rush of drugs through his veins. (It may not be good for working, but it makes forgetting so much easier.) Only this time John is here, and has long-since taken his morphine away. 

"Mrs Hudson has lunch made." John's voice pulls Sherlock out of his thoughts, as if he senses which direction his mind has turned in. "She'd like it if you came out and had some. You need a break from this."

"John -"

"No. I'm not listening to it this time, Sherlock. You haven't eaten in three days or properly slept in five. And there's no use in saying that it helps you think to do this to yourself, because you need rest and you need fuel otherwise you won’t solve this case. So you’re going to come out and eat and then go to bed for a few hours.”

Sherlock twists his lips into a moue of distaste, knowing from John’s tone that he’s serious about it. "Only an hour though, alright?"

John’s lips twitch as he forces himself to hide a smile. "Sure. An hour in bed after you eat. I'll get you if there's any news."

Sherlock nods and stands, a wave of dizziness forcing him to grab the edge of the desk to balance himself. Out of the corner of his eye he sees John frown, and instantly regrets getting up so fast if it'll only bring John's concerns down on him.  If John thinks he's wearing himself out too much, it'll be even longer before he gets back to the case.

"How do you feel?"

"I'm fine. You're right. I just need a break from this." He gestures at the wall with all of its sheets of information.

"Here. Let me help before you hit the floor and give yourself a concussion." John takes his arm and puts it around his shoulders, wrapping his own arm around the thin waist of the detective for support. "Sleep first, then eat. It'll refresh you."

"Are you saving your lecture for afterwards?"

"You can bet on it."

Sherlock smirks ruefully. "Good to know."

Not for the first time, John praises his luck that Sherlock has a ground floor bedroom. Manoeuvring him upstairs when he’s like this would be a nightmare, especially with his refusal to accept any sort of help and denial of his weakness. He sags in the doorway, all resistance draining out of his limp form, and John has to adjust his grip so that he doesn’t just slide to the floor. It takes some managing, but he half-carries, half-drags Sherlock across the room and lays him down on the bed, head propped up on the pillows, face so pale he almost looks like a ghost with the dark shadows under his eyes. John tugs off his boots and pulls the covers up to his chin, fingers lingering long enough at his throat to feel the reassuring pulse. (Every time this happens, John swears it’ll be the last time and it never is. But he can at least ensure that the exhaustion is the only problem.)

Sherlock groans, blinking sluggishly as he comes to again. John fills a glass of water out of the pitcher on the nightstand and puts it to his lips, checking his pupils as he drinks.

"You're definitely staying in bed now," the doctor berates him, kindly but firmly. "I'll decide when you can go back to the case and it won't be a moment sooner."

Sherlock grumbles something incomprehensible - but which almost certainly contains the terms _idiot_ and _boring_ \- and his eyes slip closed as he sinks into the bed. John shakes his head and pulls the curtains, eyes averted away from the haze of smoke just visible in the distance, a constant reminder of what still needs to be done.

* * *

It's dusk by the time that Sherlock wakes, a swirl of ideas and theories in his mind, the gift that resting has given him. (Once again, John conducts light, even if not in the most obvious of ways.) Visualising the map from his office, Sherlock studies the terrain, the distance between infectious zones, the possible sources of spread. Animal to animal transmission can safely be ruled out, which leaves indirect methods. If it had gotten into the water, then Marion would likely have been one of the last to go down, instead of the first, considering the direction in which the river flows. Even more unlikely is transmission by other animals, though it remains a very slim possibility. With the distance involved and the locations of which ranches went down when, air spread is also unlikely. And once the impossible has been eliminated, whatever remains, however improbable must be true.

Sherlock opens his eyes, a wave of nausea washing over him which he forces back before swinging out of bed. His boots are beside him and he pulls them on roughly, brushing back his curls with his fingers. If he's right, then the work has only begun.


	6. Bullet Through the Darkness

The evening has closed in across the land, as it is wont to do. Off to the side in the distance traces of purple remain in the sky, the sun having just slinked away, draining the light blue of the day and bloody red of the sunset with it. Redbeard raises dust as he trots along, though not so much as to warrant Sherlock pulling his bandanna over his nose and mouth. Above them the first faint stars are quietly appearing. Any other time, it would seem like a completely ordinary night fall. But the whole range is quiet.

The range is not only quiet, but is eerily so, though some would favour the term obscene. Even the distant rattle of gunfire has disappeared, to return at sunrise. The almost silence is to be expected - after all, only three ranches still have livestock, and two of those have been condemned. The cavalry have given efficiency a whole new meaning, going so far as to bring in a second unit of cavalry men - equipped with shovels in order to keep up with demand, shooting coyotes so they can't help in the spread with their travelling across country in search of meat. (He never realised before how comforting he finds something so ordinary as the usual sounds of the country, lost now for however long this curse may last.)

Sherlock's fingers itch for his violin to drive the events of the last days out of his mind, screeching notes reaching into the darkness like a message sent into the abyss. An easy way to burn the numbness out of his chest, to settle his mind. (There was a time when numbness was desirable, but that was Before, before everything changed in such definitive ways. Before John looked at him with barely-hidden worry in his eyes. When there was still a network to take apart.) Of course, such a means of escape is not exactly possible right now, thoughts and questions, voices in their own right, left to circle through his brain, wondering, extrapolating, tormenting, mentally redrawing the lines on the map in his study.

_Steered into the kitchen. Bowl of soup placed in front of him. The silent command to drink it, after all, he had agreed to this. All to get back to the case, to find the cause. The cause which he’s almost certain he’s ascertained, though it still seems too unlikely. The impossible, made improbable, made likely truth. More soup. And all the while a plan falling together to act on in the morning. A ride across country, ostensibly to inspect livestock and draw blood samples for experimental purposes, though of course those will play a part. Primarily in search of supportive evidence._

_A knock to the door. John’s frown, and a muttered, “who could that be?” Sinking sensation in the pit of Sherlock’s stomach, sense of foreboding. He swallows the soup, wipes his mouth, and follows John to the door. In front of them stands a cowhand, stubbled chin, wild eyes, twisting his hat in his hands._

_“The woman in the saloon said that I could find Sherlock Holmes here.” His voice is uncertain, concern lingering below the surface, clamped down on in the stoic way of the cowhand, too used to death, disappointment and pain with the harsh life of the range._

_Sherlock nods. “Henry Way or Frank Canton?” Straight to the point, as always. No need for formalities now, when the reason for this visit is all too obvious. Major news like aftosa spreads like prairie fire, albeit almost more unwanted. There’s more to be salvaged after a fire. “It’s Way, isn’t it? The Box H? They’ve got one.”_

_The cowhand’s jaw drops, shock evident in his face, breaking through the badly-formed façade. “How did you –“_

_“It’s my job. I suppose he’d prefer if I confirmed it as opposed to going straight to the cavalry. Always a chance it could be made in error, no matter how sure he might be with so many others gone down, and he’ll be hoping on that chance no matter how unlikely it may be. Yes. Fine. I’ll ride up there in the morning and see for myself. Thank you for bringing this to my attention. If you go back to the Comique Irene will be glad to entertain you for the night if you mention me.” He swings the door shut, and leans on it, beads of sweat breaking out across his forehead._

_“That was –“ John’s voice is reproachful, almost scolding._

_“Abrupt. I know. Better than stringing him along until he had to force the words out himself and substantially less tedious. I’ll head out first thing. Maybe swing by the Canton place before I come back.”_

_“I don’t suppose there’s any way I could stop you.” It isn’t a question. Both know there’s no need for that._

_“None at all.”_

It’s been less than twenty-four hours. And the Box H is gone now too. In spite of all of his best efforts, a wave of guilt crashes into Sherlock. He didn’t infect those cattle, there was nothing else that he could do. And yet, he passed sentence. Pulled the trigger on some of them. As good as killed the rest too. (Is this the same guilt that everyone else feels in their mundane lives? How do they live with themselves? Or is it magnified for him, enhanced with the capacity of his brain, heightened with the magnitude of what he’s had to order?)

It’s too late to go back and change this last week, though he wishes that he could. Wishes that he and John were out of the territory when Marion found his first ones. Wishes that the infection could have run its usually mild course without being discovered. Wishes that none of this destruction had come to pass. Wishes that there was some other explanation possible. (He’s never wished for anything before, deemed it too ordinary an act a long time ago. Maybe he’s getting sentimental, in which case Mycroft won’t be pleased. Or maybe it’s left over from Maine. Or maybe he’s just getting old. None of those possibilities seem realistic, and yet one of them must be. Because there’s no doubt about it that he’s wishing for impossible, illogical things. None of this is the cold, hard reason he’s always held above all things.)

He knows that he should find a place to make camp and stop for the night. Knows that John would want him to, and in fact is under the impression that he will, but Sherlock can’t bring himself to. Needs to keep moving, keep heading in the general direction of the Flying W. To assure himself that there are, at least, _some_ healthy cattle left on the range, even at the expense of likely going back to square one. If he stops, it’ll be the afternoon before he gets there. Otherwise, he could reach it much earlier. He knows Redbeard is more than up to it.

The night marches on, Redbeard’s trot slowing into a walk as he picks his way through the darkness, Sherlock of little help to him with his mind in a whir, turning over the known facts again and again. The moon has risen high, casting a silver glow on the canyons and rock that mark the land, as if it were all moulded in metal. There’s a chill to the air, but it’s almost imperceptible for Sherlock who simply draws his heavy coat tighter around himself, finding comfort in its familiar weight. The quiet has its own current, a charge that crackles like lightning. It doesn’t even register in his subconscious, though he does note Redbeard’s growing uneasiness, the way he attempts to take control away from his master, escape off the trail.

“Behave yourself, boy,” Sherlock murmurs. “The sooner we get there, the sooner we can lay this ghost. No time for side trails and rambling.” The horse snorts as if in answer, and distantly Sherlock feels his lips twitch. Instead of smiling properly, though, he adjusts his hat, pushing the brim back to keep his curls out of his eyes.

The bullet pierces his left shoulder before he hears the shot, like a crack renting the quiet of the night. Tingling numbness spreads along his arm, reins falling from his suddenly-limp fingers. No pain yet. (Thank God for small mercies, but he can’t bring himself to believe in a god.) Redbeard snorts, head thrown back before he takes off, ignoring Sherlock, ignoring everything except for the adrenaline coursing through his own blood.

It takes all Sherlock can give to maintain his balance, to grab the reins with his functioning right hand and hold on, wrapping the leather around his wrist so as not to slip off. It sounded as if the shot came from somewhere behind him, but he can’t go back, can only hope to get to town and John and the relief that it promises. (Hopes he can hold the pain off, and somehow control the bleeding, if Redbeard will only _slow down._ )

But the town is a long way off, and even with the horse galloping as he is, he feels the blood seeping through his clothes.


	7. Preparatory to Surgery

Not for the first time this morning, John glances at his watch between patients. He knows Sherlock likely won't be back until evening, considering his plan to take blood from some of Canton's stock, but that doesn't remove the uneasiness which has taken up residence in the pit of his belly, an unshakeable sense of foreboding.

However, he hides this sense of worry from the people who've come to see him. Most of them have only minor problems - broken fingers from bar-room brawls, lacerations for stitching, a sprain or two to add colour to the whole affair. He wonders, briefly, how Mike is faring across town, dealing with any number of various illnesses. Then he banishes the thought to focus on another minor injury.

The door swings shut behind Deputy Anderson (lacerated arm courtesy of a drunk and disorderly miner) only to open again a moment later. Molly Stamford née Hooper steps in, her light blue dress practical, dispensing with the frills favoured by more fashionable women. John quirks an eyebrow at her as he washes Anderson's blood off his hands, and she takes the seat reserved for patients.

"Busy morning?" she asks, the query always genuine when it comes from her as opposed to an attempt to make conversation. (John realises that in his worry he’s starting to think like Sherlock as regards the boring normality of the human race, so he shakes his head to clear it before replying. Sounding is like Sherlock is not necessarily the wisest of things to happen.)

"Not the worst. Thank God no one was shot this time.” (Though a shooting would be a nice change, the Sherlock-like voice in his mind whispers.)

Molly chuckles, then blushes, her hand flying to her mouth in her embarrassment. “I know it’s not supposed to be funny, I just-“ She swallows, and John smiles reassuringly at her.

“Go on. I’m sure whatever brings you here will be a refreshing change from the morning.” He buttons his cuffs as he slides back into his chair. “So. What can I do for you? Surely it’s not something you can’t tell Mike about.”

He regrets his off-hand comment immediately when she blushes to the roots of her hair. “No. No! Nothing like that. At least, I don’t think so. I was just wondering if Sherlock was in.

John sighs and shakes his head, another wave of worry washing into his stomach. “No. He went out to Way’s place yesterday. A suspected case but he’s likely confirmed it. Then he was going to ride over to the Flying W. Said something about blood samples and comparison under a new staining method. Odds are that he won’t be back until sometime tonight or in the morning.”

“Oh. I just . . . I had some lungs that I thought he might be interested in. They have early tuberculosis lesions, some really good ones, and I know he’s been looking for some for a while for one of his monographs so I just thought. . . I’ll preserve them for him, just in case he decides to take a look.” She stands to leave, straightening the creases out of her dress in one of her nervous tics.

“Don’t worry about it. I’ll make sure to tell him when he comes back, just be careful with them, yeah? Wouldn’t like to hear of you getting ill or something with all of your autopsies.”

With a nod and slight smile, Molly leaves. John’s eyes slide back to the clock on the wall. Nine o’ clock in the morning. He knows there’s no reason to worry, but it won’t leave him. A new patient comes in. The morning continues.

* * *

The world feels separate from him, intangible, vague. His head is woozy, the land around him slipping in and out of focus in time with the throbbing of his shoulder, blood soaking through the makeshift bandages he'd managed to somehow block the hole with.

The sweat breaking out on his forehead and trickling into his eyes has nothing to do with the sun which has long-since risen. Mouth dry, fingers limply holding on to the reins, eyes only half-open, too tired to keep them open and too stubborn to give in to the exhaustion threatening to overwhelm him. Needs to hold on, needs to get home so John can stitch him back together. The sense of it filters through his brain, perfectly comprehensible but difficult to carry out when the pain is fading into the background and he's more tired than he's felt before.

John will kill him if he doesn't stay awake. (He's never been one for hyperbole but it's oddly effective now, galvanizing him into forcing his eyes open and sitting straighter in the saddle, wincing when that makes his shoulder protest more.)

The effort is too much, weakness creeping in to his muscles and bones. His head sinks forward, chin on his chest, and he's too tired to raise it, too tired to do anything except keep holding the reins.

And even that is almost more than he can bear.

* * *

There's really too much paperwork in this profession, far too many reports that need to be filled out in relation to each and every case, be it a murder in the street or someone who just happened to drop dead in the saloon. (Can't finish that report anyway until he hears what Mrs Stamford has to say.)

Ten in the morning. The heat is steadily rising, so much that Lestrade shucks his broadcloth jacket and stretches. No harm in taking a quick break from this pile of bureaucratic nonsense, and he could do with more cigars.

With that thought in mind, he runs a hand through his greying hair and puts on his hat. Having changed the sign on his office door, he wanders down to the mercantile, not for the first time amused at the quiet that settles over the town as the heat rises. With rain and some cooler weather due in a few weeks it won't be like this for too much longer, but Greg will take what respite he gets.

The sound of hooves draws his attention before he gets as far as the store. A horse is visible at the far side of town, walking slowly with his head bowed, and even at this distance he can see that the rider is slumped forward. Nothing about it feels quite right, and Greg glances towards the Comique where Anderson is idling, making eyes at a saloon girl. The Deputy looks up, eyes meeting the Marshal's before he, too, looks towards the edge of town. The change that comes over him is immediate, hand dropping to the pistol at his waist as he looks back at Greg.

Nods are exchanged, and both men advance towards the incoming horse, whose coat is coming up a burnished bronze in the sunlight now that he's nearer. Greg's heart sinks at the sight, and he murmurs a curse under his breath, turning back to Anderson and shaking his head.

"It's Sherlock, isn't it?" And something in Anderson's voice means it's not even question, more a disheartened statement of fact. "I thought he wasn't due back until morning."

"He wasn't." The back of Greg's neck itches, and as he scratches it Sherlock slides off Redbeard's back, body limp in the Arizona dust.

They're beside him in a moment, and without being told Anderson turns back and runs towards Mrs Hudson's boarding house to get John. Greg registers Sherlock's pale face, the closed eyes and pale lips and dark curls sticking to his forehead with sweat. His heavy coat is only half on, where he must have eased his wounded arm out of it to bind the bullet hole. A wave of nausea washes over Greg as he kneels beside Sherlock, the smell of blood reaching his nose making him want to retch. It's certainly not the first time he's seen a bullet hole and blood spilled, and he's seen bodies that smelled much worse. But it's Sherlock and he looks half-dead already and surely there's some way that he can be saved.

* * *

When Irene hears Sherlock's injured, she knows what to expect, remembers intimately their two years on the run and the state that he was in by the end. Leaving Joe to hold the fort in the Comique, she takes a flask of brandy and runs into the street. It's easy to see where Sherlock is, Redbeard still standing by his side with both John and Lestrade tending to his bullet hole.

She's beside them in a moment, giving the brandy to John and taking Sherlock's hand in hers. (It's been so long since she last held on to his fingers like this, probably when he was still out of his head after they came back.) His eyes are closed, and he'd look almost asleep only for the paleness of his skin, the sweat beading his forehead, the blood soaking his clothes. She knows it looks bad for him, knows his breathing shouldn't sound that pained and laboured, but instead of letting the worry overwhelm her she swallows it back and strokes his curls away from his face, his hat having fallen to the ground when he passed out.

With Lestrade supporting Sherlock's head so he won't choke, John trickles the brandy slowly in through his parted lips, watching as he swallows it before trickling in more. A low groan escapes from Sherlock's throat, and his eyelids flutter, lashes brushing his cheekbones.

"Easy, Sherlock, easy," John murmurs. "It's al lright. Just swallow a little more."

Sherlock squeezes Irene's hand, grip far too weak for her liking. "John," the word is a pained gasp, forced out between clenched teeth. "Go, John. Looking . . . for you."

"No they're not, Sherlock. It's all right. The danger has passed. We just need to get you home."

"Hurts, John." His eyes open at last, seeming to roll in his head before settling on John, their grey-blue hue glazed with the pain and the bloodloss. "M'tired."

"I know you are. I know. You can rest soon, and I promise it won't hurt, but we need to get you home first."

Sherlock nods, eyes falling closed for only a heartbeat. "All right."

With painstaking care, Lestrade and John manage to bring the detective to his feet, half-carrying, half-supporting him down the street, his head lolling forward onto his chest, body too weak and tired to keep it up. Irene runs ahead, her skirts hitched up out of her way, to ensure that the way is open into John's consulting room. Sherlock is unconscious again by the time that they lay him out on the table, body limp and muscles slack in spite of the clenched jaw and tightness around his eyes.

"Irene, there's a solution of carbolic acid on the middle shelf of the left hand cabinet. There's also a fresh scalpel blade on the drawer to your right. Could you pass them over?" John's directions lack any of the worry bubbling in his stomach, calm now in the face of battle as he draws a syringe of morphine. "Greg, there're needles and suture in the drawer to your left. Put them in the steel basin with the scalpel and pour in a quarter measure of the solution. Then check on Mrs Hudson and the water that I asked her to boil when I went out." As his instructions are being followed to the letter, John eases Sherlock's coat off the rest of the way, followed by his black jacket. Taking his left arm – mindful of the shoulder injury - he examines the delicate blue veins in the crook of Sherlock's elbow, the memory coming unbidden to mind of the last time he saw a puncture mark marring the now-smooth skin. Carefully applying pressure to cause one of the veins to become more accessible, he slides the needle home, slowly injecting the morphine into Sherlock’s bloodstream with practiced ease. The tension bleeds out of Sherlock’s face, slipping away as the drug takes effect, and John allows himself a moment to feel relieved.

“Is there anything else that I can do?” Lestrade asks, worry etched deep into the lines of his face.

“I think I can manage here, with Irene’s help. Go and wire Mycroft the news.”

A frown from Lestrade, and Irene pales. “Do you think that’s wise?”

John looks up at them, eyes dark with his own worry. “I think it’s necessary.”


	8. Painful Delirium

The pain in his shoulder conjures images of pyres, of burning flames and cattle carcasses. White heat and crimson blood, the stiffness after death. He's cold too, shivering in spite of the heat and pain, everything feeling distorted as if viewed through water. The unsteadiness of a ship on the sea, rocked by waves. He seems to see thick smoke billowing towards the sky, black and oily, hanging over everything.

And Irene. But what's Irene doing at the pyres? She shouldn't have to see this, she has no part in it. She should be worming her way in as best she can, finding out information for him using the multitude of charms that leave her irresistible to most men. Not seeing this needless destruction, this vision of hell on earth.

It seems he says as much through the smoky haze, because she shushes him quietly, her fingertips gentle on his cheek, murmurs something about John being back soon. But how could John be here? Whatever about Irene, but John is safe in Arizona, unaware of any of this mess and so much the better. Better to keep him alive and ignorant than drag him into this and risk his life. If he can't keep Irene out of it, at least he can keep John, protect him as best he can.

The tiredness pulls at his consciousness, making him feel as if he's in his own room in Mrs Hudson's house, Irene at his bedside. Strange that he imagines her in his room, when she's never been there, but it must be all of the time spent with her of late that's causing him to do it, all of the hiding and the fighting and the tangled web. But dream-Irene is as gentle as real-Irene sometimes is, and it lulls him to sleep in spite of the pain. In spite of the pyres.

* * *

 

If she concentrates hard enough, Irene can delude herself into thinking that Sherlock's simply worn himself out with the case, nothing more, nothing less. That's why there are lines of tension around his eyes, why he's so restless in his unconsciousness, mind still whirling around the pertinent data, sorting it into some semblance of reasonable order. It reminds her of Maine, their time around the port and the farms, smoke from the growing city and cremated livestock clouding the sky. It's not that long ago - hardly two years, really, right in the middle of their time working together - and yet it feels like centuries since they've brought down the slave-trading part of the network that it was all tied up with. A tangled web of lies, deceit and disease.

Sherlock used to work until he passed out in those days, refusing to listen to Irene's advice to relax, let his mind settle so he could re-focus, refusing even to eat and sleep. (Though she wonders even now if that had less to do with trying to solve the case and more to do with being unable to shut the horrors he'd seen away from his mind. She's selfishly thankful still that she wasn't pulling the trigger on those cattle.)

She knows it's the pain and the bloodloss and the morphine that's causing the restlessness in his mind this time. How close he's come to dying. She tries not to think of it like that, tries instead to remember when the two of them were in Denver late in '83 and he was a gambler, she a prostitute, and they only got away with their lives through a combination of Latin and poker. It was probably the easiest part of those two years, after the Baron, but before Maine and the New Mexican affair.

Alone with him in this room now she tells him about it to pass the time, and so she doesn't hear his mumbling. Some of it goes over her head, references to cases that she wasn't a part of, and things that could easily be chemical solutions. Some of it she knows all too well - Redbeard, John, Mrs Hudson, even Mycroft. It seems wrong to hear about these things with his voice so hoarse, so weak and filled with pain. If she could lay her hands on whoever it was did this to him . . .

His eyes flicker open, their grey depths regarding her hazily, frowning to himself. "Canton's herd," he murmurs as his eyes slip closed again. "Should've . . . earlier."  
She shushes him, squeezing his fingers gently. "It's all right, Sherlock. Don't worry about it. You couldn't have known."

"Should've . . . seen." He sighs, whatever grip was in his fingers disappearing. Automatically she feels for his pulse although she can hear him breathing, fingertips carefully pressed to his wrist and counting each beat, oddly soothing now in its own way though the beats aren’t as strong as she’s used to.

It's not the first time that he's surfaced towards consciousness in the last hour since John's been called away, though consciousness is rather a loose term. Last time he was under the impression that they were still in Maine, babbling nonsense as his eyes rolled in his head. It reminds her of the night she found him sprawled across the bed they'd shared as part of their cover, the syringe still nestling in his limp fingers as morphine coursed through his veins. Past experience doesn't make seeing him like this any easier.

She pulls the sheets up to his chin, hiding the bandages from view, and interlaces her fingers with his beneath them, laying her head down on the pillow. John will be back soon enough, and then the morphine will make it easier for Sherlock, will soothe the pain evident in each breath. And she can go back to pretending that everything's all right and this is just a minor blip in their plans.

* * *

When John does get back to them, it's to the sight of Sherlock mumbling incoherently, eyes screwed with pain, while Irene makes soothing noises under her breath and gently mops the sweat from his forehead and the tears that have slipped down his cheeks. Before checking the bandages, John fills another syringe of morphine, sliding the needle into a vein and easing the drugs into Sherlock's bloodstream.

"Has he been like this long?" he asks quietly as he checks stitches and ensures that there hasn't been any more bloodloss.

Irene shakes her head, watching the tension slowly drain out of Sherlock's face. "Been in and out a little bit in the last while and not making a whole lot of sense. But aside from that . . . I figured it was the morphine leaving his system."

"No sign of Mycroft yet?"

"None. I thought there'd at least have been a telegram by now."

John sighs, answer enough without commenting and resumes his seat beside Sherlock when he's satisfied himself that everything is as in order as it can be in these circumstances.

"Canton's man is dead," he says quietly. "It was a bad wound, serrated blade if I were to take a guess. Looks as if he was bushwhacked on the way into town. It'll be a good one for Sherlock when he's back on his feet." And Irene knows that she hasn't imagined the forced positivity in John's voice, knows that John’s terribly worried too, though he’ll do his best to hide it and pretend otherwise. But he can’t hide the tension around his eyes, and as the afternoon fades into evening, there’s nothing that either of them can do except light the oil lamp and wait.

Though what they’re waiting for, neither are sure. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for how late this chapter is in coming. There's no excuse for it, really, I've just had a tremendous amount of other stuff to do and no real urge to write. Hopefully the next chapter will make its appearance soon.


	9. Suspicions Aroused

It's after dark when Mycroft appears, silhouetted in the doorway by lamplight. If it were any other time John would be amused to see him in chaps and an ordinary leather vest. As it is he can spare no smile, too hollowed out with his own worry to much care about such trivial things.

"How is he?" Mycroft asks quietly, eyes focused on Sherlock's limp form, and even his voice is oddly hesitant, devoid of its usual self-assured quality.

"He has a chance," John answers, voice equally quiet, "a fairly good chance if he can avoid any infection."

"And otherwise?"

"Who knows?"

Mycroft nods, seeming unsure in the doorway (and isn’t that new?) then turns and leaves. John listens as his spurs rattle against the hardwood floor, and knows that he’s gone to Sherlock’s office, gone to focus on this case which is tearing everything apart and not just them. Not just the town and the range but lives too. (Not just Sherlock’s either. This is affecting everyone.)

“Well,” Irene murmurs, raising her head from beside Sherlock’s, “that was abrupt.”

* * *

 

The night wears on, and little changes. Mrs Hudson mothers John and Irene (and Mycroft), trying to convince them to go to bed, to take a break, but of course it fails. (She knew it would, but she has to keep up appearances too, and it helps to conceal some of her own worry.)

Mycroft returns to the room, eventually, having changed into a black broadcloth suit. He sits beside John and doesn’t say a word, just watches the rise and fall of his brother’s chest, the pained shifting of his wounded shoulder and for a moment it seems Sherlock is five again, so dreadfully ill with pneumonia. It’s so long ago, and so much has changed both for better and for worse that Mycroft finds it difficult to imagine now that they were ever as close as they were then.

He forces the memories away and focuses instead on his brother as he is now, pallid and unconscious, delirious when he does wake any little bit. It’s not exactly a comforting sight, but he’s better off entrenching himself in the present and the specifics of the current situation than dwelling on the past.

With a little prompting, John and Irene explain what happened, how Sherlock rode into town out of his mind, how he was alone out on the trail by his own choice, having ordered John to stay home, how they each suspect that it’s related to the foot and mouth.

At the mention of that plague another wave of nausea crashes over Mycroft, though he doesn’t show it. If he’s honest with himself he can admit that he’d suspected as much, but to hear his own fears echoed back sheds new light on the affair.

“It’s a distinct possibility,” he murmurs. “Had he mentioned any theory to either of you?” Though he loathes the idea, he knows the esteem his brother has for Irene, and knows that with their shared history he’s almost as likely to mention something to her than to John, perhaps even more so, with Maine taken into account.

To Mycroft’s dismay, both of them shake their heads. “Not a word,” both say at the same time, a chorus which makes him wonder all the more.

“And you’re not keeping something to yourself on the subject, are you, Mycroft?” Irene’s crystal eyes bore into him, and if he were a lesser man he would shift under that gaze. (Years of being at the receiving end of Sherlock’s shrewd glares have served him well.)

“If I thought I knew how to stop this, I would have done it by now.” His voice is a little harder than he’d intended it to be, and he takes a breath to settle some of the tension from his body.

“Why don’t you just let it run its course?” John puts in. “According to Sherlock they often do that in Europe.” It’s an obvious attempt to distract them all from Sherlock’s condition, but Mycroft finds himself rising to the bait nonetheless.

“Yes, and it’s cost them millions as it is, or did he neglect to mention that?”

He knows that he doesn’t imagine the glimmer that comes into John’s eyes at his words. “Better to have the cattle anyway, even without the millions. At least with the cattle you have a chance of making the millions back. Right now they’re losing both cattle and money. Tell me how that’s a preferable alternative.”

“It’s not as simple as that, John. Immunity’s only temporary with a thing like this. Get it now, recover from it, and it will be back in six months if it isn’t stamped out. Not to mention that a recovered animal is still a carrier for months afterwards. All we can do is what we’re already doing.”

The firm set of John’s jaw shows that he still doesn’t believe that mass slaughter is the right thing to do, but he doesn’t say anything, probably mindful in case Sherlock can hear them. The thing is, Mycroft himself knows that what’s happening out on the range isn’t enough and isn’t right. The images that he saw as he rode cross-country from Prescott to San Pedro convinced him of that more than anything, even the barely-concealed nervousness in Sherlock’s telegrams.

Thing is, he can also see no other way of dealing with this thing.

(And, God, but he needs a smoke right now.)

* * *

Sherlock knows that he should be in pain, seems to vaguely re-call something to do with burning from before. And his left shoulder does feel strange, heavy, almost disembodied. But instead of pain, there’s an oddly comforting buzzing in his skull, reminiscent of a morphine binge. Could it be morphine? He can’t seem to remember that. Doubtful, though, because if John thought that he was using morphine again then there’d be hell to pay. And that’s not a risk he’s willing to take these days simply for the pleasure of numbness.

(Numbness is overrated anyway, so he learned in his time away. Though sometimes . . . perhaps sometimes it’s acceptable.)

Thinking about it, he finds that he’s too tired to much care. Too tired, in fact, to do much of anything except lie here in this bed with Irene holding his hand. (What? Hold up. What’s Irene doing here, because those are most definitely her fingers intertwined with his? And is that John holding his other hand? And why can he hear Mycroft droning in that infernal way he has? Oh, it’s all far too confusing, especially when he can’t make out any of the words.)

His eyes flicker open. (Or did he open them? The question of intent is a little blurred right now, as is his vision. It seems his initial synopsis as to the presence of John and Irene and even Mycroft was correct, though it appears he missed Lestrade leaning against the doorframe. _Always something_.)

It seems John says something, but Sherlock’s mind is still too fuzzy to understand him. So he shakes his head instead of answering and lets his eyes slip shut, swallowing against the dryness in his throat. Sleep is all he wants now, anyway.

* * *

John breathes a sigh of relief when Sherlock passes out again, the confusion in those eyes having been more than he could bear. He strokes back a stray curl, and checks Sherlock’s pulse to reassure himself more than anything. It’s too soon for any more morphine, so he leans back in his chair, turning to Mycroft again.

“But why would they want to resort to something as ridiculous as that?” He asks, picking up where Sherlock had interrupted. (It was as if he’d heard the conversation, and by waking up was registering his displeasure with the mere idea of what Mycroft had been talking about.)

“They think it would act as a firebreak, restricting the outbreak to this locality,” the elder Holmes says, and the curl of his lip shows that he doesn’t like the idea any more than John does. “I managed to talk them out of it for now, but there’s every chance that they’ll consider such measures if the situation gets any worse.”

“There’s no point shooting healthy livestock, though.” The displeasure in Greg’s voice is nowhere near as subtle as Mycroft’s. “I mean, sure, they’re probably shooting plenty of healthy cattle now, but at least they’re on infected ranches. If there’s no sign of infection on the ranch, then it’s just needless.”

“So I’ve explained to them. But they insist on considering it as a possibility.” A silence descends the room, before Mycroft stands. “I suppose I should pay a visit on Frank Canton and see how things are on the ground. I trust you’ll take good care of my brother, John.”

He sweeps out and Greg makes a face. “Well, isn’t he a concerned brother.”

* * *

As noon rolls around, the low fever which has haunted Sherlock since he collapsed in the dirt seems to fade, slowly easing away, to be replaced with more pained shifting of his injured shoulder and mumbled syllables. If John is relieved, he doesn’t show it, and Irene refuses to let her guard down and get her hopes up that it’s a good sign. (It is. She knows deep down that it is. But she’s seen too many men die in spite of initial improvements to allow herself to feel relieved, and she knows John has too.) Instead, both of them reminisce on old times, in case Sherlock can hear any of what they’re saying. They carefully avoid mentioning foot and mouth, though they both wonder about what Mycroft will find. Time and again the idea of a contiguous cull returns to their minds, and they push it away without mentioning it, hoping that things don’t come to that.

When lunch is ready, Mrs Hudson forces them to eat, taking up their vigil as they do so. They linger over coffee longer than they need to, allowing themselves to relax a little in the kitchen though they’re still on edge.

The illusion of peace is shattered when a knock comes to the front door, and John sighs, his back creaking as he raises himself out of his chair to go answer it. When Irene moves to get up too, he gestures for her to sit back down. Anyone any way expected to show up wouldn’t knock, and Mycroft won’t be back for hours yet.

John opens the door to find Anderson waiting, twisting his hat in his hand. “Phillip. How can I help you?” John asks, glancing him over to ensure that there’s no fresh blood on his clothes.

Anderson opens one of the hands holding his hat to reveal a bullet casing. “I rode out along the trail Sherlock came in on to see if I could find anything,” he says, “and turned up this a fair ways back. It’s fresh, but it’s all I could find. Looks like the shot came from those rocks about a quarter mile from the Bar Seventeen’s line shack. I talked to some of the ranch hands but they say the shack was empty that night. Thought he might want to have a look at it himself when he’s feeling up to it.”

In spite of the worry for Sherlock and all of the concerns on his mind, John smiles, just slightly. “Yeah, I’ll keep it for him.”

“How is he?”

“Bit better than he was yesterday, but still out of it. The wound looks good so far, so that’s something at least.”

Anderson nods, then turns to leave, before reaching a hand into his pocket. “Almost forgot. I’ve a telegram for Sherlock from Socorro. You might as well have it.”

“Oh. Thanks, Phillip.”

Anderson smiles slightly before walking away, and John lets the door swing shut behind him as he opens the telegram.

“What is it, John?” Irene asks, watching the colour drain from his face.

“This certainly counts as the situation getting worse,” he murmurs.

“What does?” There’s a wariness to her voice that he knows he doesn’t imagine. It reminds him of Mycroft’s words about culling out uninfected ranches. _A firebreak. Restricting the outbreak._

He looks up at her. “They’ve a suspected case in New Mexico.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies, again, for how long this chapter has taken in appearing. While I'm not fully happy with it, I am reasonably satisfied, and the upcoming chapters will be more exciting.


	10. Lengthening Shadows

The deep ache in his left shoulder has spread down his arm and into his chest, so that he feels it in his elbow and wrist as much as his neck and across his back. It's a dead heaviness more than piercing burning, for which he's grateful but still. It's all a little extraneous, considering that he doesn't remember what's happened. He tries, but draws a blank on everything after leaving Way's ranch.

He's in his own bed, anyway. He knows that much. The familiarity helps, but it doesn't tell him how he got back to the house. Clearly he didn't make it to Canton's place, so what happened in the interim to send him back here?

In truth, he's too tired to try and figure it out, content to lie in the bed in the darkness of the room. And if he doesn't move then the pain has no reason to get any worse.

That thought isn't quite as comforting as it should be, though it is a little.

He opens his eyes a crack, wary of hurting them, and is met with the sight of Mycroft stretched in his chair asleep. It's so incongruous with how his brother normally behaves that it makes him smile in spite of the pain.  
John is slumped in his own chair, his hand resting beside Sherlock's. In the low light from the almost-burned out lamp, Sherlock can see the lines of tension etched in his face even in sleep, and the tightness between his eyes. He’s too tired to try and puzzle it out, though it stirs a memory in the back of his mind, blisters, gunshots and a sense that what has happened feels profoundly wrong. It unsettles him, even now when it’s all vague in the late night.

“Go back to sleep.” Irene’s voice in his ear is hoarse with tiredness, reminding him of late nights gambling in Denver, when his mind was too busy swirling to let him rest. Sherlock turns his head, careful so as not to jar his neck or shoulder, and sees her head resting on the pillow next to his, eyes drowsy, hair askew. She’d never go to work in the Comique looking like that. The idea makes his lips twitch in the midst of his tiredness.

“Denver,” he murmurs, throat dry enough that he coughs with the effort of speaking, jarring his shoulder and tearing a whimper from his throat. Irene remedies that with a glass of water off the bedside cabinet which she presses to his lips. He recognises the sting of the laudanum, but doesn’t protest, grateful to her for thinking of it.

She smiles, and it takes some of the tiredness out of her face. “I remember. That was probably the highlight of those two years. It surely beat an awful lot of what came before and after.”

“Mhmm.” He sighs, and she cards her fingers through his hair as his eyes slip closed. Sleep creeps in on him almost before he knows it, sweeping him beyond the stiffening pain in his shoulder.

* * *

The next time he wakes, he’s greeted by the worried look on John’s face, tight jaw and tighter forehead, eyes darkened. Before Sherlock can even open his mouth to say anything, John shushes him, finger to chapped lips.

“You were shot,” he murmurs. “The bullet ripped through your shoulder and you lost quite a lot of blood. Don’t stress yourself by talking yet, just rest.”

The information swirls in the fog of Sherlock’s mind, explaining the pain but not much else. His thoughts come sluggishly, like thick soup or blood through collapsing veins (and why does that seem like something important, something essential which requires further examination?) Before he can question John’s words, John is already answering, faintest trace of a waver to his voice, eyes darker than before.

“We don’t know the who, or the why, or any of those other things that you want to know. It’s driving Mycroft mad. All we know is that about three nights ago you were riding back from Henry Way’s, when you were shot.”

Way’s place? What could have brought him out that far? Must have been at least an eight for him to go that distance.

He swallows, throat raw as his eyes slip closed. It’ll have to wait for now anyway. He’s far too tired to focus on it.

* * *

John watches as Sherlock slips back into unconsciousness, and breathes a sigh of relief. For a moment, the recognition that glimmered in the detective’s eyes at the mention of Henry Way worried him, but he’s selfishly eased by Sherlock being too weak to put the rest of the pieces together. He knows it’s wrong of him, knows he should be eager to see Sherlock improve and put this case to rest, but the fear of the torment it would wreak in his best friend’s mind tempers that eagerness, softening it to a nice possibility, just not so in the immediate future. Better to let him forget about it for a few days, than to distract him with a disaster which he can’t do anything to prevent now anyway.

* * *

Blood staining his hands. Hollow emptiness inside. Crackling flames stretching towards the sky. Acrid smell of hide and hair as the flames eat their way through carcasses piled high.

He wakes in a sweat, shoulder aching, heart pounding, feeling as if he’s been through this before. In a rush, it all comes back to him, the cattle, the plague, the pyres. The newly infected out at Way's place, and surely that must have been days ago. What about Canton's? Are they down yet? Has it spread any further? Have they found a cause yet? What new cases has there been? The questions come in a torrent, a flood, forcing him to sit up too sharply and pull at the healing wound in his shoulder.

Only now, with the pain clearing his head, can Sherlock realise that the room is empty except for him, curtains pulled, lamp lit, grey light of late evening seeping in and bathing the walls. Leaning back against the head board he takes a deep breath, and then another, waiting until his heart rate settles, before carefully, cradling his left arm to his chest so as to limit movement, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed, the hardwood floor cool on his bare feet. With infinite care, he stands, then has to sit down promptly when his head goes into a spin, jolting his muscles again.

The curse that comes to his lips he stifles behind gritted teeth. John would not be happy to think that he might have hurt himself more, and would likely keep him from the work even longer should the mere idea come to mind. He settles back against the head board, and slips one hand inside his shirt, feeling out the topography of the bandages and how much of his chest they cover. (Answer: Quite a bit. Presumably the injury was to an awkward part of his shoulder and took a lot of stabilising.) He lets his hand fall away and closes his eyes, meaning to only rest a few minutes before trying to stand again.

Instead, Sherlock dozes for an indeterminate period of time, woken only by John's hand on his good shoulder.

"How are you feeling now?" It's a strange sort of relief simply to hear John's voice, and for a moment Sherlock worries that tears might spring to his eyes.

"Tired. Sore. Nothing unexpected." His voice, on the other hand, is hoarser than expected, gravelly to his ears, and John passes him a glass of cold water, laudanum-less this time. It soothes Sherlock's throat, and he drains it all in a moment. "Tell me about the range."

John pales, almost unnoticeable, and if Sherlock were any weaker he wouldn't notice it. "The range? It's fine. Perfectly fine. Nothing wrong at all."

"Tell me the truth, John. How's Canton's place?"

John busies himself with the oil lamp, turning it up and then down again, so he doesn't have to look at Sherlock. "They started culling them out yesterday. Mycroft says at least two hundred had some symptoms of it."

"And Way?"

"There's a cavalry unit finishing him today."

A heavy silence falls in the room, and Sherlock doesn't know what to say. He knew it was bound to happen, knew Canton would go down in time, but knowing it in his gut and hearing it confirmed are two very different things, as is the wave of nausea that washes over him. There's nothing for him to bring up except water, so he just retches painfully over the edge of the bed, John rubbing circles on his back.

"Probably shouldn't have finished that glass so fast," he murmurs, helping Sherlock to lie back against the pillows when the retching stops and filling him another glass of water from the jug. "Sleep for a while. Do you want any morphine?"

Sherlock shakes his head, sighing. "No. Save what's left until I really need it."

* * *

Sherlock manages to sleep through that night, undoubtedly helped by the stream of morphine that John administers around midnight when his pained whimpers threaten to become cries. As with the last two nights, Irene stays by his side. Where she disappeared to during the day, John doesn't ask, though he is relieved to see that she doesn't look as tired as she had. Probably she just needed a break from all of the worry, like he does and refuses to take.

Either ways, both of them are still awake at dawn when Mycroft stumbles in and flops into the one remaining free chair in the bedroom, falling asleep without even taking off his hat. If the situation weren't so damn worrisome, John would laugh at the eyebrow Irene raises before she fetches a blanket to cover the elder Holmes brother.

"Must have been an exciting day," she remarks in that dry way she sometimes has.

"Hopefully not too exciting," John adds. "Don't know how much more of it I can take."

"Maybe he's reached some sort of conclusion." Neither deign to comment on just how unlikely that is.

* * *

Morning finds Sherlock waking to hushed voices in the hall outside his door, and words that he can't make out though he knows that it’s John and Mycroft. He doesn't open his eyes, instead lies there with the comforting feel of Irene running her fingers through his curls and savouring the comforting almost-numbness in his shoulder.

As he struggles to hear what's being said, Irene starts talking, seeming to ramble on about any sort of nonsense, and successfully foiling any attempt of his to hear what's being said outside. She tells him about Molly and Mike, about the latest news from the saloon, most of it agonisingly dull and irrelevant, idle talk which simply doesn't matter to him and surely she must know that.

It's a throwaway remark that catches his attention, about one of Canton's cowhands having disappeared the same night he was shot. He files it away for further examination. Perhaps it isn't all nonsense that she's talking after all. That certainly seems at least somewhat promising.

She stops talking when the door creaks open, instead addressing her next question to John.

"Where's Mycroft off to now?"

The hesitation is clear in how long it takes John to answer. "Over around Henry Way's place. He think there might be something out there to help him, though what he expects to find I'm not sure. The smoke will probably hide most of the evidence anyway, and that's if the smell doesn't put him off. Wind seems to be blowing a lot of it that way."


	11. Estimations and Considerations

It’s another two days before John consents to tell Sherlock the truth of the foot and mouth situation. Two days of lying in bed, staring at the ceiling and being forced to eat. (“You need to get some red meat into you, Sherlock, dear. For blood.”) Two days of knowing next to nothing about the goings on of the world outside his bedroom. (Well, nothing of consequence. Irene insists on telling him about the trivial doings of the town’s people, and he knows that she’s trying to distract him from the still-burning killing fields.)

So it’s the full of two days before John helps him dress (and it’s marvellous to feel civilised again, even if his arm must be in a sling to keep pressure off his shoulder) and helps him into the office. (He’s protested that he’s not an invalid and is in fact able to walk, though in truth his legs still feel like jelly what with the blood loss and everything, so John saves him from stiff leaning against the wall waiting for his strength to come back.)

However, in spite of John’s help, the exertion tires Sherlock anyway. When they come to his office, he lowers himself carefully into his chair and leans back, taking a moment to get his heart beat under control. His eyes snag on the map that he pinned there, and was it really only a week ago that he stood there drawing on the red lines of contagion? It feels like an eternity has passed in that time.

As he examines the map now, he sees that Mycroft has been adding to it, marking the newest ranches down – Canton’s place and Way’s and more besides. It’s these others that bother Sherlock the most – two in the county to the north, separated from the Box H by a road and several fences, one to the south, understandable enough as it shares a river with Marion’s place, and one to the east.

“They’re still working on culling them out,” John says quietly. “Two more cavalry units have come in, and they’ve gathered a force of cowhands to help too. If it gets any worse, they’ll be overwhelmed, but for now they’re managing to get by.” He stops, and Sherlock waits, recognising the quality of the silence as meaning that there is more to come. “They have it under control in Galveston. No new cases in the last four days, according to Mycroft. But . . . but three ranches have gone down in New Mexico, around Socorro. They brought in the cavalry a few days ago to help with the clean-up.”

“So it’s back-tracking.” A spark, possible theory growing in the back of Sherlock’s mind, too soon to tell yet. “To get here, there’s every chance it would have come through Socorro on the way from Galveston.”

“Then why has it not shown up anywhere else? If it got here after it got to Socorro, should it not have shown up there first? And in El Paso before that and wherever else along the way?”

“I don’t know. I don’t like not knowing.”

* * *

Mycroft’s descriptions of the lesions that he observed over the course of his investigations are invaluable to Sherlock’s timeline. In a contrast to the raw, burst blisters of Marion’s first steer, those found on some of Canton’s cattle were older, dried, fresh new skin already growing back, making it likely that that’s the index outbreak from where it spread to the rest. Likely the cattle had been hiding in the canyons and arroyos, out of sight of the cowhands. If that’s the case, it makes Sherlock wonder how many might have been missed in the culling operation, harbouring the sickness to spread it to the replacement cattle which will be bought in when this thing settles. It’s unlikely, he knows. With all of the travelling over and scouring of the range the last week and a half, it’s improbable that something would have been missed.

Improbable, but not impossible.

Sherlock wakes out of his reverie to find that he’s sitting in front of the sitting room fireplace, embers burning low behind the grate, John asleep in his customary chair. The violin sitting in his lap, propped against the sling, shows signs of being half-tuned, where his fingers must have been fiddling at the pegs before he lost his train of thought.

The muscles in his wounded shoulder are stiff from being still so long. He sets down the violin and eases his arm out of the sling, massaging the muscles carefully with his good hand. The pain worsens with movement, but slowly ebbs as the stiffness does. Briefly, he contemplates taking the bandages off and having a look at the bullet hole, then decides against it when he remembers that he can’t put the bandages back on with only one hand. He’d have to wake John to help, and where would that leave him?

Sighing, Sherlock stands and goes to the cabinet, belatedly realising that he hasn’t put the sling back on when there’s a stab of pain in his shoulder. Cursing softly, he takes a tumbler from the shelf and pours two fingers of brandy into it. (And clearly Mycroft has been frequenting the bottle, because there’s been a definite decrease in the volume of alcohol in it.) It burns as he swallows it, but that doesn’t matter. His blood is warmed simply at the taste.

"Are you sure you should be drinking that?" Mycroft's voice comes from the doorway, startling Sherlock so that he has to put his glass down.

"I didn't hear you come back," Sherlock says, turning to face him and keeping his arm to his side.

Mycroft smiles, a rueful twitch of his lips. "I didn't think you'd had." He joins his brother by the cabinet, filling his own glass of brandy and topping up Sherlock's. "How are you feeling?"

Sherlock shrugs his good shoulder. "Tired. Sore. How else am I supposed to feel?"

"Have you looked at the bullet casing yet?"

"It's from a Spencer rifle. .56-56. Other than that, it's anybody's guess. Don't suppose it really matters though. Once I get to the bottom of this whole business, I suspect we'll know who orchestrated it."

Mycroft eyes him, but doesn't comment, instead going to Sherlock's chair and picking up the sling, before coming back and helping him to put it back on. "Be careful, won't you? I'd hate to have to send a telegram to Mummy."


	12. Comique Nights

The Comique is a gaudy, noisy affair in spite of the subdued atmosphere which has settled like a pall across San Pedro. It, like all of the other saloons in town (and whorehouses and dancehalls and opium dens) has done a rousing trade in the last six weeks or so since foot and mouth was first found on Marion’s ranch. In spite of this, Irene can’t bring herself to feel pleased at the profit she’ll turn. She’s seen what this has done to everyone, the havoc it has wreaked on the range and on the ranchers, the sickened, frozen look of men getting to escape the slaughter for a night or two. The numbness in their faces, the wide eyes, never quite eased by drinking or card games or buying a poke off some of her girls. (They’ve all halved their rates for the cowhands, hoping to distract them from the horrors they’ve seen.) They wash the blood off before they get to town, change their clothes and comb their hair, but Irene can still smell it, and knows it means that the killing and burning hasn’t stopped, only slowed down. (Only two cases in the last week in the county to the south, and perhaps that means that this thing is finally coming to an end.)

Leaning against the bar observing the room, Irene’s eyes drift to Sherlock sitting at the poker table where he’s held court for the last day. He doesn’t notice her gaze, alternately glancing at his hand of cards and observing the man across from him. As she watches, Sherlock calls on the gambler to lay down his cards. She doesn’t catch what’s said over the piano music, but before she can wonder, Sherlock pulls his pistol with his good hand and the room stills.

“I’m calling the hand that’s in your hat.” A pause, eyes watching the cards that the gambler lays down from out of the aforementioned hat. “And I’m taking this pot.” Gun back into belt, and Sherlock carefully pulls the chips towards him. “I suggest you find somewhere else to play, Mr McCall. Miss Adler doesn’t take kindly to such nonsense, especially not this weather.” His lips twitch slightly, and business resumes as usual.

The bravado is there, undeniable, but beneath it Irene still sees the weakness lurking. Sherlock’s pale even now, tired lines around his eyes as he studies his cards, held carefully with the hand that’s still in a sling. (The sling is to add to his appearance, she knows, she’s seen him spending hours at a time without it, re-building the muscle in his damaged shoulder no matter how much pain that leaves him in.) As she watches, he reaches out without ever taking his eyes off his cards and throws back another shot of whisky before filling his glass again.

“He’s hitting it hard, isn’t he?” Lestrade’s voice in her ear is low, pitched below the music so that it looks as if he’s propositioning her.

She smirks playfully, and twists around so as to whisper, “He’s been at it since yesterday evening. Hardly left the chair.”

“I presume he’s working it out, or at least has a mark in mind.”

“If he does he hasn’t mentioned it yet.” She swallows down a mouthful of whisky from off the bar behind her, grimacing at the taste. How men can drink this all of the time is beyond her. “No news?”

“None. Mycroft’s keeping to himself, and if John knows anything he isn’t saying. I should arrest the three of them until one talks.” Irene knows she doesn’t imagine the bitter annoyance in Lestrade’s voice.

“You know as well as I do that you won’t do that. Sherlock will wait until he’s ready and then give the go ahead.”

“He’ll pass out long before that if this keeps up much longer.”

* * *

Sherlock is watching Irene as closely as he is watching his playing companions. (They’re worth hardly a second glance, two cowhands - the exhaustion of their slaughter work bleeding through them so that their minds are hardly on the cards - a card shark (the gambler whom he’s already had to take in hand for his tactics) and Al Marion – tired and sickened but still able to muster a good game, for which Sherlock is grateful.) He sees her sell a couple of pokes to cowhands, and knows that they won’t get quite what they expected to, but will come away happy enough anyway. She’s talented like that.

By the time she comes back downstairs after the second poke, the two cowhands whom Sherlock was playing with have drifted away, replaced by more gamblers who really aren’t all that they were cracked up to be. He trounces them soundly, then retires out of the game, leaving them to Marion to finish off. Distracted though he may be, the man is a remarkable card player, so much so that Sherlock suspects he is working his frustrations out in this way instead of anything more destructive.

Out of the game and sitting with his back to the wall, Sherlock surveys the room. Irene cocks an eyebrow to see him having moved, and he raises his glass to her. She smiles, and leans over the bar to whisper something to Joe before joining him at his table, glass of wine and fresh bottle of whisky in her hands.

“I take it you’ve no time for mediocre gamblers,” she says, topping up his glass.

“Marion can handle them,” he replies, leaning back in the chair and working a hand in through his shirt to massage his shoulder. “He doesn’t need my help with this. No, what’s much more interesting is the cattle rustler sitting by the door. It appears he’s only just realised that this country is not the most lucrative for him.”

Irene turns to look at the man, then looks back to Sherlock. “What makes you think he’s a rustler?”

Sherlock rises to it, a smile playing around the corners of his mouth though he feigns unconcern. “Aside from the burn scars which I noted on his fingers when he sat in for a hand a few minutes ago, his shoulders are tense and his eyes are wary. Nobody else looks like that these days. They're all over their tension and worry, because the worst that could happen for them has already happened. Their focus now is on damage control. Also, his horse is almost played out. I saw him ride into town last night, and suspect that he’s probably on the run from a lynch party elsewhere.”

Irene shrugs one shoulder, and pretends as if she isn’t pleased to see him working out something not related to the mess that everyone has found themselves in with this cattle plague. “Might be a murderer. Those burns on his fingers might just mean that he smokes and has a shaky hand.”

“True, but he’s guilty of something and my money’s on rustling. No new men that I know of are wanted anywhere around here, and Lestrade doesn’t have a wanted poster for him.”

“So what do you intend to do?”

This time, it’s Sherlock’s turn to shrug as he takes another mouthful of his whisky. “Absolutely nothing, unless he gives me a reason to.” As he speaks, the alleged rustler joins Marion’s table for another hand of cards. “If he manages to win anything he ought to buy a new horse with it.”

* * *

As the evening passes, flowing into night with the smoothness of sand slipping through fingers, Sherlock observes the progress of the poker game. The rustler leaves in a huff after an hour, the money he’s lost split between one of the gamblers and Marion. Marion leaves next, tipping his hat to Sherlock on the way out, but not saying anything. Boredom and a need to pass the time force Sherlock into re-joining the game, but his mind isn’t in it, occupied instead with plans for the morning, considerations and calculations.

After losing fifty dollars, he slips the sling off and shoves it into the pocket of his coat, flexing out the shoulder muscle and playing on. And damn it hurts, but it’s better than the stiffness.

He studies his hand idly, knowing there isn’t much he can do with three queens, but decides to call anyway, suspecting that the gambler opposite him hasn’t much better.

In the end, he doesn’t find out. A shot rips the night air outside the Comique, shattering the focus of everyone around the table. Sherlock’s out of his chair in a moment and running through the saloon door, several gamblers and cowhands hot on his heels. There’s a congregation of men down the street at the mouth of an alleyway, the gun smoke still clearing, smell of powder heavy in the air. He forces his way through, catches sight of the rustler’s body sprawled on the ground and cuts down the alley.

It’s easy to see where the shot was fired from – a spent cartridge marks the spot, belonging to a Colt .45 at a glance. He pockets it in case he needs to examine it further, then pulls his own pistol, just in case. The tracks leading away show that their maker was running, and Sherlock follows them, careful to be quiet.

A flash of coat tails heading through the back door of the hotel, boot steps hurrying up the stairs. Sherlock stops, listening, mapping out from the noise the room into which the shooter has gone. Carefully, he opens the door, wincing when it squeaks on rusty hinges, and steps onto the stairs. John joins him, coming seemingly out of nowhere, and together they inch their way up the creaky wooden steps, piano music bleeding through the wooden walls from the parlour.

Reach the landing, left down the hallway, then right, door to the second room still slightly open, light spilling out. Again, Sherlock stops to listen, nodding when all that he can hear is a trunk being snapped closed. John draws his pistol and kicks the door in.

A bullet clips Sherlock’s cheek, scratching the bone. He ducks and fires, heart pounding in his chest, bullet shattering the window, forcing the shooter to hit the ground where John jumps on him, soundly hitting him on the head with the butt of his pistol, leaving him to slump to ground unconscious.

“I thought we’d decided you weren’t going to let yourself get shot at anymore,” John grumbles, watching the detective mop the blood off his cheek, hand trembling just slightly with the abation of adrenaline. (He feels it too, a weakness in his legs and that bullet was cutting it just a little too close for his liking.)

“Yeah, well, unavoidable circumstances and all that.” Sherlock feels out the damage to his cheekbone, which is smarting now that the excitement is over. (So nice to be back even if he still isn’t his best self just yet.) “Hope this doesn’t scar.”

John shakes his head and stands, pushing Sherlock to sit on the edge of the bed and noting the way that he cradles his bad arm close. Idiot probably strained it too much with all of his heroics. “Lestrade is going to have an awful lot to say about this,” he mutters, and sighs fondly, long-since used to these things. Just another night, really.


	13. Conclusions, Concluded

Sherlock stretches out in his chair, arm back in its sling, and surveys the wall for what feels like the millionth time in the last six weeks. The maps are all drawn, figures noted, calculations made, sketches analysed – it should be obvious. But the question remains, how?

The why he’s fairly sure he has settled, has it encrypted on a sheet of paper in the top left corner, along with his theory as to the who. Even the when is reasonably certain, and there can be no doubt as to the what. But how? How did it get into the territory? How did Marion go down first even though geographically he should have been last, or almost? Clearly it’s all come from the index case in Galveston, but how?

The question plagues him.

John seems unconcerned, soundly asleep in the chair next to him, leaving these questions to Sherlock. And oh, hasn’t Sherlock tried to sleep too, his shoulder sore and mind worn out, but he can’t rest while the how circles in his head over and over, back and forth, permeating everything in a horrifying obsession, a burning craving to know and have these questions answered.

Tomorrow. He’ll know tomorrow.

* * *

By morning, the saloon is quiet, cowhands off finishing the culling and disposal. Sherlock finds comfort in the quiet, knows it means that things are getting back to normal, however slowly. In another six weeks the new cattle will arrive by train, brought in from the northern states of Wyoming, Montana, the Dakotas in a strange twist on the usual order of these things. Not to mention the cattle brought in from Europe on the boat, or, and he’s sure the cowhands don’t realise how much he knows of these things, stolen off Mexican bandits, running along the border away to the south. It’ll be a relief after the last few weeks to repopulate the range, no matter how dull he would have thought such things were not so long ago.

Today, he ignores the various ongoing poker games, though he does note that Marion is on a streak again. Instead he focuses on the door, watching, waiting. (And so much in these days comes down to waiting on telegrams, waiting on the cavalry, waiting for the fires to burn out, waiting and waiting and waiting.)

Irene is watching him, he knows, sees the subtle shifts in her posture, the way she holds her head when she doesn’t want him to see her. She’s curious, and moderately concerned, but she stays away from him for which he is grateful.

After an hour of watching, Sherlock gets his result. The half-door swings open, admitting a man clearly just in from a long journey. His chaps are dust-coated and shirt is wearing thin, and he needs a shave more than anything else, but it’s undeniably Billy Wiggins. His keen eyes scan the room, and when they fall on Sherlock he inclines his head slightly to the left, quirking an eyebrow.

Each move he makes is calculated, thought-out and planned. Sherlock can see it in him, and hides a smile, oddly pleased by the care which Wiggins takes not to give any of the game away. Sauntering to the bar, Wiggins orders a whisky, and it is at that point that he is recognised. A cheer goes up from the handful of cowhands at the bar, Billy’s compañeros from his time working with Frank Canton.

Sherlock searches out Irene and nods at her. She joins him, a little amused by the whole affair but terribly curious nonetheless.

“I think tonight might be a night for celebration,” he murmurs when she slides onto his lap as she has so many times before. “just don’t let Wiggins get drunk.”

“I won’t,” she promises, rubbing a hand over his good shoulder. “Anything else?”

“Let me know if Canton appears. I’ll see you later.” He kisses her cheek and she stands, making a show of helping him with his coat though he’s really become quite adept at pulling it on one-handed.

“Be careful, darling.” Her voice simpers, a conniving glint in her eyes making him cringe inwardly at the very sight of it, though he smiles for the benefit of everyone else in the Comique.

“I will, sweetheart.” He kisses her again, trying to make it look as passionate as he can while still maintaining his restraint and not disgusting himself. So well does he achieve it that she grins at him when he pulls away, before she turns and heads upstairs, skirts hitched up to prevent them trailing on the hardwood. Glancing again at Billy Wiggins (he still gives the appearance of being absorbed in his drinking), Sherlock also takes his leave, walking out into the burning Arizonan sunshine.

* * *

It’s late before Wiggins arrives at the house, stumbling up the steps and banging into the door. Sherlock’s been waiting for something like this, so gestures for John and Lestrade to remain sitting while he answers the door. Hardly has the door been opened, when Wiggins steps in, straightening up and letting the act of drunkenness fall from him.

“Couldn’t get away from them any sooner, Mister ‘Olmes,” he says, tone matter-of-fact and without the merest trace of a slur. “They think I was in Mexico chasing ‘ores.”

“Good. Keep it that way.” Sherlock leads him into the sitting room and positions him in front of the fire, taking a sheaf of paper out from under his own chair. “Lestrade, this is Billy Wiggins. Old acquaintance of mine and excellent at ferreting out the best opium dens. John, I believe you two already know each other.”

“So what’s all of this in aid of?” Lestrade asks, reaching forward to top up his whisky glass and filling a shot for Billy while he’s at it. “I’m presuming you’ve got something.”

Sherlock takes his time in answering, easing the sling off and sitting deep into his chair, fingers steepled under his chin. “I brought Billy in after the range fire last year,” he says at last, looking deep into the fire burning in the grate. “At the time, I had my suspicions and kept them to myself, because there just wasn’t enough concrete evidence to make an arrest and I didn’t want to give the game away. So I asked Billy to hire on as a cowhand with Frank Canton, just to see. Around the time I was shot, you may remember this better, John, word came that one of Canton’s men had disappeared in the night. There weren’t many remarks passed on it, because otherwise Irene would have told me, but I suspected from the first that it was Billy, though of course he’s been working under an assumed name. Anderson knows him better as Scott Vernet, considering that he’s arrested him several times for public drunkenness and brawling.”

“All for the cause, Mr ‘Olmes,” Billy cuts in, swallowing back his drink. “I was testing them.”

“Hang on, if Anderson knows him, then why don’t I?” Lestrade asks, eyeing Billy closely. “I’m reasonably sure I’ve only seen him a handful of times drinking in the Comique and I certainly don’t know any Scott Vernet.”

“No ‘fense, Marshal. I time it to when you’re distracted.”

Lestrade blushes, causing John to chuckle which he disguises as a cough. “Maybe you should carry on, Sherlock.”

“Quite. As I was saying, I assigned Billy to work with Frank Canton as a result of my suspicions. It was him who I was specifically going to see when I got shot, mainly because he hadn’t reported in with the current situation at the ranch. As it transpired, he left on that same night and two days ago I received a telegram stating that he was on the way back and had some new information.”

At this, Billy takes another mouthful of whisky and runs a hand through his thin hair. “Canton brought cattle in on the train from Galveston about two and a ‘alf weeks before the outbreak was confirmed there. When I left ‘ere, I was after examining some papers that I found when I broke into Canton’s office. We knew that the cattle ‘ad come in, but we thought they’d come from Amarillo. They were Dur’ams and ‘Erefords with a little Angus, and those are popular in the Pan’andle, so we accepted that and let it slide. When we got word that there was an outbreak in Galveston, we didn’t pay it a whole lot of ‘eed. None of us had been anywhere near Galveston and as far as we knew there was no need to be concerned.

“Then Marion’s steer got those blisters, which set me to thinking about the situation. I knew Marion ‘adn’t brought in any cattle and nobody else did either, and yet this thing ‘ad gotten in. So I picked the lock into Canton’s office one night when ‘e was on the range, and found that the cattle had actually come from Galveston in the first place.

“I lit out and went east, and by the time I got to Galveston I ‘eard that Mister ‘Olmes ‘ad been shot and Little Joe was dead, so I decided to stay and see what I could find. Turns out the cattle we ‘ad ‘ad shared the boat with the ones in Galveston. Knowing what ‘ad ‘appened, I talked to some people who put me in touch with some other people who could get things done.”

Sherlock feels the colour drain from his face and he sinks deeper into his chair, John’s eyes seeming to bore into him. “Someone who could get things done?” he asks, voice hushed, mind whirring into that last encounter with James Moriarty in the mountains.

“A certain Sebastian Moran. ‘E arranged to bring in the cattle for Canton, even though ‘e knew they might ‘ave ‘ad it. Bet ‘e was paid well for it too.” Wiggins glances at Lestrade, choosing his words carefully. “Don’t worry ‘bout ‘im, Mister ‘Olmes. I took care of it when I was out there.”

“All right. Carry on, Wiggins.”

“When Moran was sorted, I went to Socorro. Seems the train ‘eading west with the cattle stopped there and some cow’ands got off. Then I came ‘ere.”

“I don’t understand why Canton would bring it in,” Lestrade says quietly, when it becomes clear that no more is forthcoming from Billy.

“He wants to run the others out and take the territory for himself.” Sherlock doesn’t look up, instead swirls the whisky that’s left in the glass. “Likely he hired someone to kill me so I couldn’t solve it, because he didn’t know about Billy or Mycroft. I think when he brought in the cattle he probably put some mavericks into other herds. No one would pass any remarks to a heifer without a brand, they’d presume she was missed in some round-up or other. That way he can ensure that all of his neighbours would go down, and although he would go down too his family money and compensation money would be more than enough for him to re-stock and buy out the other ranchers, particularly if he sent men south when the ash has been buried to take cattle off the Mexicans. There’s also the fact that the lesions on some of his cattle were older than on Marion’s, and according to Mycroft his cows had swollen udders thanks to the mastitis caused by foot and mouth.”

“There were more ‘bortions than usual,” Billy adds. “We put it down to ‘eat stress at the time, and blamed wolves for young calves going missing. The same thing ‘appened at the places in Galveston and Socorro.”

“That means I can charge him with failure to report an exotic disease too, along with attempted murder and sabotage.” Lestrade nods to himself. “Any idea of where he is right now?”

“He’ll be in town in the morning. I’m using Wiggins as bait to draw him.”

* * *

True to Sherlock’s prediction, Frank Canton rides into town the very next morning astride a powerful bay horse. The man himself is surprisingly short, a fact which strikes Sherlock anew the moment he sees him walk into the Comique. Canton doesn’t see him, obscured as he is behind Irene and the ridiculous dress she’s wearing, a fact for which Sherlock is grateful when the man turns to the bar and orders a whisky. He needn’t know the precise details behind his impending arrest.

If Canton realises that he’s just walked into a trap, it doesn’t show. He takes his beer and settles back against the bar, scanning the room for any sign of the man he knows as Scott Vernet, although he won’t find him. One of the several things which he doesn’t know in this moment is that Wiggins is currently wearing one of Sherlock’s spare black coats and sitting with his back to the bar, carefully playing poker with John and several gamblers.

Canton also doesn’t realise that it was Sherlock who sent him word about Wiggins’ return. As far as he’s concerned, it was some cowhand who passed him the note, not Anderson in disguise (Anderson himself didn’t question the note or the reasons behind it, but he did smirk when Sherlock directed him what to do with it.)

It isn’t long before Lestrade and Anderson walk in, pistols ready and badges on show. They don’t make any fuss over it, just walk up to Canton and present the situation. He tries to make a break for it, but Anderson is too fast for him and tackles him to the ground, snapping the handcuffs around his wrists in a flash.

Canton snaps, kicking at Anderson as he and Lestrade haul him to his feet. He catches Lestrade around the back of the knee and the three of them crash to the floor, getting tangled with the poker players. With Sherlock’s help, John manages to extract himself from the ensuing brawl, both of them catching Canton under his arms and pulling him out.

“You really shouldn’t have done that,” John says conversationally as they haul him out of the Comique and down the street to the Marshal’s office.

Canton remains silent, face sullen, but John reads the guilt and just a flash of fear in his eyes as they throw him into a cell and that satisfies him a little.

Sherlock turns the key, locking the rancher in, and hands it to Anderson who has followed them, nursing a bloody nose but otherwise not looking a whole lot the worse for wear, which a lot more than can be said for the two gamblers he and Lestrade have thrown into the cell next to Canton.

“Might be wise to leave the cuffs on him yet,” Sherlock says, brushing a hand through his hair before turning to the door. “You might want to hire extra men, Lestrade and post a guard until the judge comes. Wouldn’t want to have our prisoner lynched before that.”

Greg nods, following he and John back out into the dusty street. “Be a terrible waste of effort on our behalf to let anything happen to him, though the boys off the range will probably want to get drunk before making plans for a lynch-party. And in all fairness,” he sighs, looking off into the distance where he knows he isn’t imagining the smoky haze that still seems to hangs over the land, “who could bloody blame them?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A final round of notes on this story now that it is finished:  
> 1\. Firstly, thank you to everyone who has read, reviewed, favourited and followed. You are all fabulous and have helped me to keep working away at this.  
> 2\. Secondly, there were times when I never thought that I would finish this fic. It has been incredibly difficult and I feel so relieved to have finally finished it.  
> 3\. Thirdly, do not think that this is the last you will hear from this particular incarnation of Holmes and Watson. I intend to write more in this world and in fact already have. There will definitely be more from this 'verse in the future.  
> 4\. I certainly hope that in the reading of this some of you will have developed an interest in foot and mouth disease. It is an incredibly horrible thing, both the disease and the most often resorted to cure - slaughter. This story was inspired by my own study of the 2001 British outbreak and some of the theories people had surrounding out - including terrorism and a plot by the EU, not to mention the idea that slaughtermen were spreading it intentionally in order to keep themselves in a job. There are an incredible amount of resources on the internet regarding this outbreak and previous ones as well as more recent ones. It is all fascinating, but I do recommend possession of a strong stomach before delving too deep into it. One particularly excellent website which I have found is warmwell.com.  
> 5\. Fifthly, and finally, there is a fantastic play by Cally Phillips named 'Men In White Suits'. It deals with the 2001 outbreak from the Scottish perspective and also highlights the divide between urban and rural life. It is heart-rendingly phenomenal and available as an e-book off Amazon for anyone who wishes to read it. I also highly recommend Katrina Porteus' poem 'An Ill Wind'. You can find it on warmwell.com under the Fields of Fire FMD 2001 tab. In fact, read that first. Words cannot describe its brilliance.
> 
> If you've made it this far, you've done well and are an absolute star.


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